B2MEM Stand Alone Challenge Stories
by iiiionly
Summary: These are completed short stories based on the LotR/Henneth Annun Back to Middle Earth Month challenges.  Featuring - in order of appearance - Thingol; Fingolfin; Galadriel & Finrod; Thranduil & Legolas; Arwen; Gandalf, Thranduil, Legolas & Gimli.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: B2MEM 2011–Day One – Nan Elmoth - _Challenge – seduction plays a central role._ Thingol contemplates beguilement. (Thingol)

_Silver Rain_

FA 4699

He was ancient, thousands of years old by the passage of time, though time under the stars by the waters of _Cuiviénen_ had little reckoning – a day, a year, a century… an eternity might have passed though he counted it naught.

Nevertheless, Elu Thingol, formerly Elwë Singollo, Lord of the Sindar - now ruler of the same - was experiencing feelings he could not recall ever having felt before. Casting his mind as far back as he could conjure memory, he knew himself only as an adult, full-grown, with a heart and mind already matured when he had first drawn breath by the _Waters of Awakening_.

The reflection in the mirror could not name the curious awareness of the silver-grey mane plaited away from his face to cascade like a waterfall of mithril down his back, the slight air of felicity with which he appraised the leanly handsome face staring back at him, the satisfaction gleaned just from sweeping his eyes over the tall, finely sculpted body that housed the flesh of his heart. It could not have given definition to the euphoria that made him feel as though a number of his wife's companions were trapped in his belly, fluttering frantic wings.

Oh, he might have noted, clinically, the wild beating of the pulse at throat and temple among the youth of his court. Especially in that moment when fingers clenched and eyes dropped as quickly as those glancing gazes clashed and the air between young lovers fizzed with the spark that presaged fire. But he could not have named it, though he had stood through years unnumbered enveloped in this very thing he was feeling now, while the trees of Nan Elmoth had grown dark and tall around he and his love.

It was at the same time enervating and invigorating, clawing and cloying. One moment his hands were slick with sweat, the next his mouth so dry words could not pass his lips. It was annoying and exhilarating and all together madness to be experiencing the sensations of youth for him who had known neither the insouciance or passion of inexperience.

His gaze in the mirror touched on the basket innocuously perched upon the sleeping couch behind him and a quiver of pleasure slid over his skin. He turned, fingers tingling knowingly as he imagined the delectation of his wife when its delicacies were unpacked under the silver rain of light in their private glade.

She had forsaken much in taking him to mate; her devotion to Yavanna, her home in Valinor, the beloved trees and feathered friends she had left behind on her journey to the Hither Lands, and more, he felt, though he could not name those sorrows either. Occasionally though, he felt the inexpressible welling of silent grief pouring from the shining soul who had accepted his troth for eternity.

There had been no discussion, no debate. No words had passed between them on the subject, but he knew that today, this day, would live indelibly in his memory. Today they would give life to another, create a new harmony that would blend with the Song, a harmony that entwined both their own songs, and yet, would be a uniquely distinct and soaring aria of its own.

He had been planning this day for months now, enlisting aid on every front: among her nightingales, whose songs he had begged for their private enchantment; from _Oromë_ to carry messages to _Yavanna_ soliciting her blessing as well as her conspiracy; the very stars themselves that they might unveil their true glory and join their light to the silver fire of his Maia mate.

He had slipped away, yestereve, at the first clarion call of _Oromë's_ horns, to meet the messenger who had carried his missive to the _Giver of Fruits_. He hefted the basket delivered by Pallando, pleased with the seductive adiposity at the end of his arm. He had been bidden to leave it unopened until alone with his lady wife, but he knew its weight to be comprised of the fruits of _Yavanna's_ complicity in his scheme.

He had the blessing of the _Valar_ and the love of eternal woman awaiting him. His beguilement was assured.


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: B2MEM2011 – Day Two – Losgar _– Challenge_ – _Defiance – a willingness to contend or fight_. Fingolfin rekindles the flame of lost hope with an act of defiance._ (Fingolfin)_

_The Oath_

The wind off the water whipped stinging cold salt spray into his face, though he felt it not at all. His mind was occupied with other physical discomforts – no food, no potable water, no possessions – his half-brother had left them with little more than the clothes on their backs, as most possessions had been loaded onto the ships readying for departure.

The leaden skies reflecting the burning vessels bore down equally upon his blighted _fëa_. How could he hope to bring his people to safety again, much less replace all they had lost in their ill-considered flight from the supposed beguilement of Valinor? What could he do to win back the honor lost in haste and bitterly repented in the anguished hours since the kinslaying? How could he possibly atone for his own betrayal of the host that had willingly forsaken hearth and home to follow him into this barren wilderness? Had he resisted and stood firm in Valinor, the majority of his people would have been spared the ordeal of his brother's insanity.

The Encircling Sea gave no answers; Ulmo heeded not his pleas, nor sent Ossë to answer the cries of the children for water. The pall of their deeds must hang like the lowering clouds over the entirety of Arda, muffling all sounds except the mourning of the earth for the innocent lost.

They were an abandoned people. By the Valar…their kin…their own loss of hope.

In those moments beside the sundering sea, when the weight of the losses born by his people drove him to his knees at the edge of the water, there kindled a tiny spark of defiance in the slag and ash left by the bitter abrogation of all hope. He would not turn back as Finarfin and his people had done; Fingolfin would admit no such defeat, nor humble himself to accept the judgment of the Valar. There was one way only, and that was forward, whether over sea or ice.

Drawing a long elven knife from its sheath in his boot, he regarded the blade for several moments, seeing not the reflection of his own features in the highly polished sheen, but the night-dark lineaments of another whose silken voice had whispered words of enmity among his people. The one who had so subtly plucked at the chords of the Song, disaffecting the harmonies, tuning the chords to ring sourly in the ear of the listener.

Fingolfin gathered the strands of atramentous hair blowing about his face into his right hand; the knife arced up, slicing cleanly through the silken skein, leaving his neck unusually bare as he thrust his closed fist high above his head.

"As the hairs of my head are born over the sea," he shook the fistful of waist-length, raven tail savagely, "so will our company find crossing, to your doom, brother! Neither oath nor bond will bind me, save this one to you. You _will_ answer for the deeds with which you have doomed our people! May the Halls of Mandos empty you of Song and trepidation hollow every step you trod upon the earth that cries out with the despair you have wrought with your arrogance and pride."

He drew back his powerful arm, flung the hank of hair as far into the dismal sky as it would fly, and watched as the wind caught individual strands, wafting them beyond even his keen elven sight to fly over the sea where he could not.

The spark became an ember; the ember, a small flame, and the flame, once burning, would not be extinguished. He would defy the gods themselves to come again into the presence of the one who had extinguished the light of his _fëa_.

Doubt and fear banished, he turned to greet an astonished Aredhel picking her way carefully down the stony shore.

"Ada! What have you wrought upon yourself?"

A wry smile teased the corners of lips beginning to turn blue with cold. "Fear not, daughter, I do not need the mane." Fingolfin took the fingers stretched out to him and tucked them in the crook of his arm, drawing her close as he turned them both to head back across the wide expanse of beach. "I have given it in pledge to find a way over this." He flicked a dismissive hand at the churning sea as though it were a mere pond to be waded across. "We will yet win our own kingdom and the freedom we have sought from the beginning will be ours until the ending of the world."


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: B2MEM2011 – Day Three – Vinyamar – _Challenge _- _the results of refusing to change_ - Finrod and Galadriel, visiting Vinyamar, share a conversation on the porch overlooking the Sundering Sea. (Galadriel & Finrod)

_What Is, Was & Will Be_

The soft susurration of the waves below came clearly to her ears as she stood, hands folded demurely before her, near the stone railing. Her gaze was set upon the silver path of the moon trailing across the water. Some trick of wind or tide reminded her of _Tirion upon __Túna_, as if the crushed diamonds of one of those broad avenues had been born by zephyr, ebb, and flow from Aman all the way to Vinyamar merely to mock her hard-won peace-of-mind.

On a sigh, Galadriel turned from the view and forbade the thoughts of the Helcaraxë; being near water always resurrected them. She could not remember, now, why she had agreed to come to this place of rock and stone where water and sky caressed as lovers and in between stood the stronghold of her cousin.

"Your sighs are as languorous as the sea tonight, sister. You are wishing you had refused Turgon's invitation to visit?" Finrod held out a crystal glass of _miruvóre_. Behind them, the palace spilled light and music out among the shadows of topiaries decorating the terraced balcony overlooking the Great Sea. "Ah…" his eyes followed her line-of-sight as Galadriel took the glass somewhat abstractedly. "You are thinking if we could only step off this balcony onto the sea, we might walk across it tonight and steal back into Valinor."

Her head turned slowly, so slowly her brother echoed her sigh, even before her ice blue gaze feathered his face with frost.

"I was thinking no such thing, as you well know."

" 'Dri," Finrod met her truculent gaze wearily. "It is far behind us. You must accept the change, if not embrace it, and release the past. Did not that journey set your feet on the path you now pursue?" Finrod sipped the noxious brew with a scowl, it was far too sweet for his personal taste, yet it was served almost exclusively at such gatherings. "Come, speak to me of what is on your heart. There are none here who would betray us, nor heed our words as betrayed. There was no moment for private converse ere Angrod spent his anger in the court of Elwë. Have you been taxed for further particulars?"

"Nay." The golden head bent over the untouched glass cradled between the hands that drifted down again to her waist. To most, the pose conveyed stillness and attention; to Finrod, it evinced his sister's emotional turmoil. She was only ever still when deeply distraught.

"Melian asked of me these things, and guessed from what little I conveyed, much of what I had not. I do not believe she was surprised by Angrod's tale. Nay, it is not pressure from Doriath that claws at me." Galadriel drew in a deep breath and turned once more to the moonlit path upon the water. "I cannot think here. There is only memory. The stone weighs upon my mind and I am reminded with every beat of my heart that the sea swells below my window. I should not have come. I am withering; parched for the sough of the wind in the treetops, the smell of rain on leaves, the green of growing things."

Finrod knew better than to remark they stood amongst some of the most beautifully barbered foliage in all of Arda. The gardens of Vinyamar were legendary, commissioned in memory of Turgon's wife, Elenwë, who had been lost in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

"I suppose this means you will not go back with me to Nargothrond," he ventured solemnly. "Since I, too, live within halls of stone."

Carefully, Galadriel set the goblet down on a nearby marble bench and turning, held out her hands to her brother. He set his glass aside as well, and taking the cold fingers, chafed them between his own. "It is a warm night," he observed.

"It is," his warrior sister agreed, "but I am weary, Finrod, and anxious, such as I have not been for centuries. I had hoped to go on to Nargothrond with you. I desire, above all, to see you find a new love here in this land. Does Amarië yet hold your heart?"

The fingers about her own squeezed briefly, as if in agony. "It matters not, for she will have been united to another by now. Nay, sister, I will not wed, for a different path has been laid before me and I must follow where it leads."

Galadriel searched the composed face before her. "But…"

He raised their joined hands, stretching a finger to still the words trembling on her lips and shook his head. "Change is upon us once more, dear one, we cannot deny it is coming. I know this as I know our history. Go back to your woods and your betrothed and live as merrily as you will, for the time is coming when all this as we know it will be changed beyond comprehension. It is not given to us to change our fate, 'Dri, we must live the Song as it is written for us, to the best of our ability."

"No!" Galadriel denied vehemently. "I do not believe what is, was, and will be has been ordained by Ilúvatar to be fixed and unchanging. I will not believe we are marionettes only, our fate sealed at birth. We are creatures of free will! Else how many of us would have abandoned Aman to trek halfway across Arda? No, I will not accept fate as a response to change. I will fight it with all my strength. I will hold to the path I choose and accept no other will imposed upon mine."

Finrod said nothing, merely squeezed his sister's hands again before releasing them.

"Fly then, little bird, fly quickly back to your nest, and feather it well. I would like to meet my nieces and nephews ere I depart these shores."

Galadriel sighed again and stepped forward. "How quickly our words become blows upon the doors of our hearts." She wound her arms around the lean waist and laid her head over his heart, feeling the fierce beat of it beneath her cheek. "Let us not fight, Fin. I will cease my haranguing if you will call a truce with fate for this at least."

"Aye, sister, for your sake then, tonight I will hold my tongue and speak not of the future, nor what it holds." He tilted his cheek against her bright head and wrapped her warmly in his embrace.

Change would come without or without compliance. Thankfully it was _not_ his fate to compel his sister to bend before it.


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: B2MEM 2011–Day Nineteen – Rivendell - _Challenge – meetings or reunions_. (Thranduil/Legolas)

_Reunion_

The forest warned me long before the hoof beats of the company were within range. I could hear it in the plodding pace of their return. Feel it in the discordant jarring thump of his ungainly dismount. See it in his eyes when he brought the remainder of his patrol into the Hall of Council.

I can almost touch it now that we are alone in his chamber. Acting as his equerry, he lets me remove the unstrung bow to rest on its pegs on the wall, unbuckle the finely tooled quiver, strip off the filthy tunic. He is covered in black gore from head to toe and will not sit on the bed when I prod him that way. He drops instead to a low stool, and removes the boots that look as if he has been wading in orc blood, refusing for the first time, my services.

The shirt defeats him though. His nimble fingers are as stiff as the boots that just came off and he drops his hands, raising his head to look at me as though he is an elfling again, faced with an unmanageable task.

I want to put my arms around him as he rises slowly, comfort him, assure him that this awful night will pass, that dawn will follow, but he is grown now and no longer affords me the comfort of comforting him in that manner.

He does allow me to manipulate the small, ivory buttons down the front of his equally filthy shirt. He has not said how or why, but his draw fingers are raw and bleeding. And I do not ask, though where he found arrows enough to accomplish that is beyond my ken. It would have required hours of continuous shooting to inflict such grievous hurts, for we elves are sturdily built despite our sometimes deceptive slenderness, particularly in the case of my son.

There is no scold, no refusal, no negation of my rights as a father to bathe and anoint his wounds in the bath. Not even a token resistance when the pitcher of hot water cascades over his head. It is bowed already, and bows still further as I sink my fingers into the filth that is his hair, freeing the warrior's braids he wears with such pride, rinsing away the dried blood that has momentarily blackened the bright, flaxen strands. He is somewhere else, his _fëa_ barely tethered to Arda this night.

The sharp denial I am expecting, after coaxing him to sit on the stool near the fire and tentatively beginning an ages old ritual he used to love with his mother, does not materialize. The gilded profile turns with languid torpor to look at me over his shoulder, then turns again toward the doors open onto the dark balcony. He has heard the deeper notes of his Song and is attempting to bring their cacophonous assonance into harmony with the lyric melody he has known for this short time he has inhabited Arda Marred. He has seen barely two centuries of life; he is too young to know this enemy. Too young to have it harvesting his unspent youth.

He has touched the plague of all elves. He has met weariness, but it will not overcome him, for he is bold and while his destiny may be shaped, it is not yet written.

The comb glides through the golden strands in this childhood ritual from which I was excluded two centuries ago. It is enough now – in the moment – for both of us.


	5. Chapter 5

Summary: B2MEM 2011_ -_ Day Twenty-three - Dol Guldur – _Challenge - Start a story with the line … Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed…___(Galadriel & Celeborn)

_After __Sauron's__ final defeat, a few days later Galadriel crossed the __River__ herself with __Celeborn__ and many of her people, and broke down the walls of __Dol Guldur__. _

– _the Encyclopedia of Arda_

_The Tower_

T.A. March 3019

_Everyone avoided the tower _on the hill of Amon Lanc; for good reason. For centuries _it was believed to have_ been the Necromancer's private nursery. The laboratory where he had elevated the level of the experiments of his master, Melkor, to an art form, exuviating elven auras, twisting with torture and mutilation the incarnate souls thus stripped to use for selective breeding.

The wizard's report to the White Council had been brief, but horrifying. He had found Thain II in the dungeons, though the king of Durin's folk had been beyond help. But the dwarf had not been the only thing he'd found. Gandalf had returned with a book of names and dates and … attributes …

But she would not think of that book today. Galadriel tossed the long golden braid back over her shoulder as she urged her horse into a cantor, Celeborn keeping pace beside her.

Today the abomination would be obliterated from the face of the earth. She would cleanse the ground as well when it was done, and plant new growth. No longer would Amon Lanc be a place to be avoided. They would raise a cairn in memory of Lothlórien's lost; their people would make of this place a garden, a place of sanctuary and healing.

The evil tooth of Sauron's power had been drawn, she would see restoration begun before her own inherent power began to wane as well, before she returned to the West and the life she had eschewed long ago.

She turned her head, smiled coyly at her spouse, touched her heels to her mount's sides and was off like the wind.


	6. Chapter 6

Summary: B2MEM 2011 – Day twenty-five – Lothlórien – _Challenge – start a story with these two lines… She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke?_ (Arwen)

_Entwined_

_She knelt on the floor _of her grandmother's talan_, carefully picking up _tiny_ shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that _had_ broke_n?

She had been admiring the detailed craftsmanship in a shaft of sunshine glinting through the thick, leafy roof when it had slipped through her fingers as though oiled. She had been unable to catch even the chain though she had lunged to do so, landing in a very unladylike sprawl on an elbow that throbbed now, though she paid it no mind.

And now the bit of blown glass no larger than the end of her thumb was a meager pile of splintered pieces dipped in tiny river of sparkling purple. Though entwined, the threads of color had been trapped in their own airspace, individual, he had said, yet together, when he had presented it to her last evening. Like the two of them. Blue for her calm, elven demeanor; red for his impulsive, forward Edain nature.

At least that's how he thought of himself, though he was the most patient man she knew. And she knew many more now than she had thirty years ago when they had first met.

Aragorn was the soul of fortitude, endurance and persistence. He had waited twenty-five years for her – a very long time in the lives of men. And would likely see as many more pass before ever their dreams came to fruition.

Arwen longed to take him to her grandmother's mirror and show him the man she saw every time she beheld his face. The man of bone-deep integrity and iron will whose silver eyes had intrigued her from their first encounter. The Edain of the ancient noble houses of Bëor and Tar-Minyatur.

But one could never tell what the mirror might chose to reveal and she did not want him to see some possible future that did not include her. For though his heart was given wholly and completely into her keeping, she knew if he saw a possible future that did include her, he would embrace it wholeheartedly. Her father's grief weighed heavily upon him and he ever sought ways to turn aside her insistence on following him beyond the circles of this world.

Like the entwined threads of color in the necklace he had so painstakingly made for her, their lives were now entwined, the bond, by elven custom, unbreakable unto the ending of the world.

Why oh why, out of the dozens of gifts he had given her, did it have to be that one?


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: APOLOGIES! This is a re-upload of this last of the finished challenges. I haven't quite gotten used to the niceties of posting here and completely forgot it uploads a story in its entirety. Including the initial scribbles for this story that I forgot to delete. UGH! Sorry, sorry, sorry!_

Summary: B2MEM 2011_ - _Day Twenty-eight - Gondor – _Challenge - write a letter inspired by this line: there was no avoiding it, the letter had to be composed…;_ Day Thirty - Grey Havens-Mithlond – _Challenge - leaving or returning home. (Mithrandir/Thranduil/Legolas/Gimli)_

_Forgive & Forget_

December, 3018

_Mithrandir,_

_I am sending copies of this letter to both Imladris and Lothlórien in hopes at least one may reach you with some alacrity, as I believe this news may be of import to your current schemes. _

_Why is it, I wonder, that the guests you foist upon me are so obnoxious? No, do not add to your sins by implying my hospitality is somehow lacking. I can forgive you the burglar and the Dorwinion, but we lost almost an entire patrol over this last one; perhaps I should have required that you visit the mothers and fathers, sons, daughters, wives and husbands of the deceased._

_As you may understand from the tone of this letter, I am less than pleased with the outcome of the little experiment you left with us this summer and wholly displeased with the fact that you failed to append your visitor's history to your request that we *keep* him until you came for him._

_I do not know what you are up to, nor do I think want to know; however, Legolas blames himself for this loss, and thus refused to allow another to bear this letter. Should he encounter you, I expect you to do whatever is necessary to make certain he comes home with a clear conscience. And, pray, __do not__ further involve the heir to the throne of Mirkwood in your schemes._

_Thranduil_

Gandalf tossed the heavy vellum down on the pristine desktop with a peeved sigh. Elrond had left the writing of the response up to him, since, the Master of Imladris had pointed out, it had been his idea to include Thranduil's son in the Fellowship. Not that Legolas was aware of that yet; another confrontation Gandalf was not looking forward to. Likely the young elf had strict instructions to return home immediately, no matter the blandishments a jumped-up wizard might pour into his Silvan ears.

There was no more avoiding it; a response had to be composed.

That required fortification – even for a long distance letter. Thranduil's temper was legendary.

_My dear Thranduil, _

_The burglar was none of my doing, as you very well know, and your share of those burgled items must have covered any slight cost and indebtedness I could have incurred even if it had been my doing. If you insinuate that Mr. Baggins and company found your hospitality somewhat lacking, as to that, I cannot rightfully speak; however, I would never presume to judge the hospitality you afford the ill-advised who enter your woods unsuspecting. _

_The heir to the throne of Mirkwood – rather a misnomer when it comes to immortals, do you not think? - it seems, was more circumspect than I had guessed in the telling of your tale. I did not realize it had been his patrol on duty; naturally, I will do all in my power to convince him the fault was not his. Alas, this is a grievous loss for the side of right. But we are set upon a course at last, though I will not trouble you with the details. _

_However, I must add that by the time this reaches you, Legolas will be off with myself and a group of friends on a tour of the continent. He is pleased to have been invited along and I have assured him of your goodwill in this avocation - as I'm certain you will assure him when he returns home at the end of our little adventure. I know you will be glad of the opportunity for him to travel safely and in such august company – the nephew of the burglar is going along – and I'm sure he will benefit from the extended exploration of places he has never before been allowed to __visited. _

_I expect you will want to thank me for expanding your son's horizons when next we meet._

_Your humble servant,_

_Mithrandir_

December, 3019

Legolas lifted his head and inhaled deeply as he slid from their mount in the yard before the stable block. "Home, Gimli. There were times I thought not to see this again."

"Aye," the dwarf muttered into his beard, allowing the elf the privilege of helping him dismount. "But not mine. Let's get this over with so we can get on with the journey to _my _home."

Gimli glanced around the bustling yard. "Not much of a welcome for the heroes of the Ring War." He leaned up on tiptoe toward the elf's ear and whispered loudly, "D'ya suppose they even know?"

Legolas smiled briefly, but the level of apprehension Gimli had felt building since they'd entered the Greenwood was all too apparent in the long, slightly sqinched green eyes. "They know."

Gimli had imagined fetes and festivals; the elf looked as if he was contemplating hard labor for the rest of his unnaturally long life.

"I go directly to my father. I can have someone show you to your rooms if you would prefer."

"Thank you, but I go where you go." It wasn't that he was afraid, he just didn't want to be left alone among a wood full of unknown elves. It had, after all, taken months to accomplish the bending of one solitary elf; where two or more were gathered … no, he would stay with Legolas. Like a burr on a saddle.

"I would take you around to the front, my friend, through the formal halls, but this way is quicker."

Gimli made a sweeping motion with his hand and fell in beside the long-legged elf, trotting to keep up with his distance-covering stride.

Their progress through the dwarf-carved halls - Gimli knew dwarven work when he saw it, no matter that it had been covered over with all manner of fabrics from airy, shimmering curtains to heavy, hand-woven tapestries and thickly strewn carpets throughout – was met with cries of delight on all sides.

"The Prince is returned!"

"Prince Legolas!"

"My Lord, you are safely back amongst us!"

"My Prince, you have been sorely missed!"

Legolas acknowledged every greeting, though he did not allow them to slow his progress in the least. Gimli continued to trot alongside, eyeing the various reactions to his inclusion, from raised eyebrows to folk warding against evil. Once he might have taken that personally, now he just chuckled to himself and smiled widely in the wake of the people's prince.

They came at last, after what seemed like miles of branching, twisting, turning corridors, to a wide set of hewn stairs that led up to a second floor. The first bare rock he had seen and Gimli halted for the first time, falling upon his knees on the bottom step.

Legolas, two steps above him stopped and swung around at the dwarf's astonished cry.

"By all the Valar!" The bearded head swung back and forth as Gimli surveyed his immediate surroundings. "There is mithril veined throughout these stairs!"

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. "Aye, throughout the entire warren of interconnecting palace rooms carved out of the rock. Just as we saw in Moria," he added with polite, though edgy, regard. "Do you wish to stay out here and examine it more closely?"

"All of Moria did not boast the glow of mithril." Gimli rose slowly, thankful no one else had witnessed his moment of complete and undisguised delight. "Which explains the glow. I had thought to ask later about the lighting, but I see now the light of one lamp reflects like a thousand," he said in awe.

Legolas shrugged. "Come or stay as you wish then." He saw nothing unusual about his home; it did not appear to have changed at all in the year he had been gone. He turned abruptly and took the remaining stairs two at a time, anxious now to be over and done with his trepidation.

All activity in the audience chamber ceased as he appeared beneath the lintel bearing the carved relief of the house of Oropherion, though there was a collective intake of breath when the panting dwarf appeared at his side.

Thranduil laid the letter he'd been reading – for the perhaps the hundredth time – on the arm of the throne. "So, Mithrandir is finished with you finally." It was not a question. "You have perhaps recalled your duty to your kin?"

There were winces from some of his cabinet members, the women especially. His son had not lacked for mothering on the death of his wife. To the contrary, he'd had more mothers than most children had cousins.

Gimli watched the archer's long fingers stretch involuntarily, curl loosely into fists and instantly stretch again. Legolas strode forward to the middle of the room.

"I never forgot my duty to either my kin, or my king, my lord." The prince dropped gracefully to one knee before the monarch, bowing his head, but his voice rang silver like the winnowing light that caught and bent the reflection of the random veins of mithril running across the floor and around the walls. "If not for the courage of two small hobbits, and one adan, to whom we owe allegiance, there might be no kin this day."

The king had read the letter so many times now, it was committed to memory.

_You will find him much changed, Thranduil. He has been tested and tried by forces of evil such as you have never encountered. The might of Sauron from a distance is nothing compared to the will of the One in close company. Give him his due. _

"Our business for today is concluded, we will resume at the regular hour in the morning. Leave us."

Startled by the voice above him, Legolas looked down at tooled leather boots before his gaze travelled up to meet his father's. No one could match Thranduil's ability to move silently. And then he was on his feet, clasped in his father's arms and for a long time, there was only the familiar scent of woodland paradise, wild honey and goat's milk soap - and aegis.

Gimli slipped away quietly.

_I regret to inform you, whilst on this journey Legolas strayed too close to the sea and has heard its call. He is not yet deep in its thrall, but as you are aware, time will not be on his side in this. _

_And I suppose, since it is through my machinations that he suffers now, I should lay the ground work for his request to remove from Greenwood with those of your folk who would return with him to Gondor and Ithilien where King Elessar has put him in charge of the restoration of that decimated land. He will have purpose and responsibilities there that will no longer be required of him in the Greenwood as renewal spreads throughout the lands. _

_Thranduil, he will not seek your forgiveness for he believes his choice to have been ordained; however, he needs it still as he has been much grieved at what he yet perceives as defiance of your will. If you can find it in your stubborn heart to give it willingly, it will do him much good._

_Though I have spent the last year mentoring a pack of children, the gift of fatherhood will never be mine. You have a fine son, cherish all that he is and celebrate all he has helped to accomplish. _

_As promised, I am returning him to you hale and hearty, though not personally, as I had intended. I am sending Gimli, Gloinsson, in my stead. Welcome the dwarf for Legolas sake, for they have become fast friends and you will do well to allow that friendship to strengthen and grow. It may be that Gimli's will be the Song he hears above the sound of the sea, in which case, you will need the good will of the dwarf in order to keep your son nearby. _

_By the way, you will shortly be receiving an invitation to the royal wedding. I would add my voice to King Elessar, Lord Elrond's, and your son's – do come and celebrate this momentous occasion with us. I am sure you have something appropriate left over from the dragon hoard to offer as a wedding gift._

_Wielder of the Flame of Anor_

_Mithrandir_


	8. Chapter 8

Summary: B2MEM 2011_ -_ Day Twenty-two - Erebor – _Challenge – illustrate the situation of a displaced group in Middle-earth…_(Movie 'verse - Aragorn, Pippin & Legolas, prior to Aragorn's crowning)

A/N: This perhaps was not the intent of the challenge, but in my life I've experienced displacement many times, and not just physically in a move, or a job change, etc. There are many ways a person can *feel* displaced or dispossessed and I thought it would be fun to take a look at it this way.

_Displaced _

He woke disoriented and not a little dazed at the magnificence to which his eyes opened. It took a few moments, lying in luxury between sheets that were not just clean, but smelled of lavender and thyme, before he remembered.

It had been well into the wee hours of the morning when a yawning hobbit had wandered into the store room he had caused to be turned into temporary command quarters, interrupting his futile attempts at engaging his brain over the documents spread out on the desk.

It seemed Pippin, having woken hungry and unable to go back to sleep, had passed the candlelit chamber on the way to the kitchens and decided to investigate on his way back. He had pointed out that Aragorn's crossing outs and blotting didn't look particularly royal in nature, to which Aragorn, in his weariness had replied with some asperity that they were merely rough drafts, and not of royal documents.

Then, of course, the hobbit had wanted to know what the documents were, if not royal summonses or official proclamations, and Aragorn had had to admit he had set aside the business of the realm in an attempt to work through the legalities of a marriage settlement. He had confessed he had little in the way of earthly possessions to offer a wife; a snug little house in Fornost, a reforged sword, and a horse. That was about it.

To which Pippin had appended with equal tartness – he brought to the table a name and a royal heritage he proposed to share equally with his wife-to-be. A queen she might be among her own people, but as Aragorn's Queen, she added two more kingdoms to her domain.

At that, Aragorn had groaned and given up his futile attempts to make any further sense of the Quenya documents, spattering ink over parchment and desk alike as he dropped the pen and buried his face in his hands.

Pippin had patted his shoulder and insisted it was time he got some sleep. However, when Aragorn had risen to collect his bedroll, surreptitiously stowed in a corner of the room, the hobbit had been aghast and informed him posthaste, that a chamber had been prepared for him.

Weary beyond measure, Aragon had stumbled after the shadow of the flitting hobbit and his single candle. The light had provided only marginal illumination and Aragorn had paused only long enough to strip off his boots and clothes before sliding between the warm sheets.

He sat up abruptly, flinging back the covers, his feet hitting the floor in an undignified rush.

"Is something amiss, your lordship?" The grinning elf turning from the window to witness his nakedness did not perceptibly increase the ranger's affability.

Grabbing a blanket from the bed, Aragorn whipped it around his lean middle, anchoring it firmly with one hand as he swept the hair from his eyes with the other and took a good look around. "These the king's chambers," he stated flatly. "We had this discussion, Legolas."

"It was not a discussion; you decreed." The elven shrug was eloquence itself. "I paid no heed."

"You sent Pippin," the ranger accused, stabbing a finger at the lolling elf now leaning against the windowsill. "And who appointed you chamberlain?"

"Farmair had his hands full with all your other visitors. When I suggested I had centuries of experience with court protocol upon which to call, he gladly handed over some of his equerry duties."

_Damn_. The elf's sunny smile always undermined Aragorn's best intentions to remain angry. Worse, he knew it and was taking shameless advantage of it. Backlit by the bright sunshine pouring into the room, Legolas radiated peace and serenity like a healing balm. _Damn_, Aragorn thought again.

"Get this through your thick skull, will you! I am not king and I will not act as though that is my right until such time as there is a sceptre in my hand and crown upon my head. Now where are my clothes?" Aragorn twitched his train out of the way and circled the bed warily, looking for the heap he'd left on the floor last night. "Legolas. Where are my clothes?"

"In the wardrobe of course."

"I do not need or want maiding." Aragorn marched to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. Then wondered why he had imagined he might find _his_ clothing in there. There was a closet full of clothes – kingly kinds of clothes, silks and satins, leathers and velvets, all dark, but richly hued – though nowhere among them did his keen eye espy his own well-worn leather and cotton. "Legolas—"

Sighing, the elf pushed off the windowsill. "Aragorn." He returned the challenge with a pleasant acknowledgement, crossing the long length of the room in several quick strides. "You have Dol Amroth on your schedule today. Your status has changed since you met upon the fields of Pelennor; you cannot greet them in battle dress, my lord."

Aragorn's sigh was much heavier than the elf's lightly amused one moments ago. "Stop my lording me or I will … decommission you. Or something." He spun awkwardly and had to suffer the elf's buttressing when his feet tangled in the train. Kicking it back again, he yanked his arm free and returned to sink down on the island of a bed in the middle of the vast chamber.

"I am not ready for this, Legolas." He dropped backwards, throwing an elbow over his eyes to block out the intrusive sight of wainscoted walls. Of tapestries depicting scenes of Númenor, heavy, gilt-framed portraits of long-dead ancestors, a plush velvet settee in the rich color of eggplant, ornamented by flanking, delicately carved chairs with scrolled arms, cushioned in royal purple. Only now did his mind perceive the richness of the carpets under foot as well, as one bare foot swung restlessly back and forth, toes sinking deep into the pile.

Aragorn sighed again. "I'm not ready for this," he repeated.

"It is not as though you are totally unaccustomed to this, mellon nîn." Legolas drew forth clothes from the clothespress and laid them over a dresser before moving back to the bed as well. He sat, careful to keep the sole of his booted foot off the covers as he drew up a leg to sit on. "You have memories, at least, of what it is too live in affluence. Your home in Rivendell is not so very different from a palace."

It was true. The Last Homely House was neither homely in terms of lacking beauty, nor least among the elven royal residences, though Elrond refused all but the egalitarian title of Master.

"I will wager that within six months this will all be common place to you again," Legolas offered.

The ranger snorted. "Aye, and you will be thrilled to live in a tree house in Ithilien for the next six months." Aragorn shoved his elbow back over his head the better to observe the slight smile twitching the corners of the elf's mobile mouth. "Do you know you are often a menace? I do not wish to be installed in the king's chambers, Legolas."

"I _do not_ lack understanding, Aragorn. But stubbornly resisting these changes will only make them more irritating and difficult to integrate into your new life. Yes, Arwen's presence will help to alleviate some of the strangeness of all of this, but would you not prefer to be comfortable in your own environment so that you may reap the benefits at your ease when she does come?"

The logic in the wisdom was irrefutable, though it did nothing to dispel the feelings of disassociation and displacement bombarding both his head and his heart with the same intensity as Sauron's armies against the walls of Minas Tirith not so long ago.

Aragorn rolled to his side and sat up. "Legolas…" he began again, this time with entreaty, though he could frame no other words to convey his utter lack of conviction that he belonged in this place.

As often happened, the elf replied to his unspoken thoughts. "You are the heir of Isildur. Your part in conquering the evil invading our lands was neither insignificant nor inconsequential. Do you not _yet_ understand you were our rallying point? The one to whom we all looked when our own strength or courage flagged? The one for whom we would willingly have given our lives to advance your cause? We are your people, Aragorn. We love you." Legolas let his gaze drift beyond the man before adding, quietly. "If I have not expressed it before, let me say to you now, you have my fealty and love for as long as we both shall live."

They were both silent for several long moments as one absorbed and the other allowed his words to sink in.

Then casually, Legolas stretched and rose from the bed to head for the door. "Oh, and you may wish to scout the king's bathing chamber before you dismiss the royal accouterments out of hand."

"Legolas?"

The elf paused on the threshold, one hand on the door latch, and glanced over his shoulder.

"I have not the words to express my thoughts in this moment."

Legolas smiled again, this time backed by the full weight of sincerity, negating the need for further words between them.

"There are many other battles to be fought as Elessar." The elf again broke the emotionally charged silence. "Let this be your retreat, your sanctuary, make it a hallowed place before Arwen comes and her coming will enhance its restorative powers. You have long practiced an open heart policy, let it be it so in this as well. Open your heart to the gifts your people desire to give you, accept them with that humility we would all emulate if only we had your gift for it, and you will continue to give as much as you receive."

Legolas bowed his head, touching his closed fist to his heart, and then he was gone.

Sunshine crept further into the room through the wide, many-paned windows on the outside wall. An unnoticed fire crackled merrily beneath a black marble mantel. A clock on a bedside table delicately chimed the hour of seven and through the closed doors came the sound of a light tenor voice upraised in song.

_To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,_

_The wind is blowing and the white foam is flying._

_West, west away, the round sun is falling…_

Distance blurred the words and eventually the sound of singing faded as well, though Aragorn knew the song by heart now.

He rose, shedding more than just the impromptu kirtle as he looked for the door to the bathing chamber.

He could set his will against Legolas' wisdom, or he could heed it. Either way it would require an effort of will on his part. But he had learned from experience it was best to heed the elf's pragmatic advice.

Ah, behind the wardrobe, set off in a little alcove an open door beckoned. He stepped through and was instantly transported to another place and time, decades past, in a dry and arid land where he had stumbled, quite by accident, upon several pools of hot water, bubbling up from the heated depths of the earth.

Curls of steam wisped over the still surface of water the green of those mineral springs. A stack of towels had been piled in a basket beside the deep, sunken tub, and a pot of soap had been tantalizingly opened so the steam had distilled its fragrance into the air. On a dresser beside a basin filled with water as well, were set out his personal grooming items, culled obviously from his pack, though he had thought it zealously guarded in a corner of the little office he had been using. Along with his bedroll.

He wondered briefly if he would ever see any of those things again, or had his self-appointed major-domo whisked them all away, along with his clothes. And then he slid into the water and the last thought that crossed his mind before decadent bliss took him was to wonder – without care - where Legolas had rearranged the meeting with the Dol Amroth contingent.


End file.
